


now everyone can see me burning

by aloneintherain



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Fluff, Gallifreyan Culture (Doctor Who), Gen, Weddings, the doctor adores his companions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 16:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18703429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aloneintherain/pseuds/aloneintherain
Summary: “Robing your past companions in stars.” Jack smiled as though he were joking, but the tone of his voice, the lingering way he glanced from the newlyweds to the Doctor, belied his grin. “That’s rather sentimental of you, Doc.”The Doctor sniffed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”The Doctor attends Martha and Mickey's wedding (in the wrong order), and delivers a pair of Gallifreyan wedding tributes and a long-awaited apology.





	now everyone can see me burning

**Author's Note:**

> Life Stuff was getting me down, so after I handed in my assessment yesterday, I sat down and wrote out something painfully indulgent. So now I present to you: self-care in the form of a 4k Doctor Who fanfic. 
> 
> This is set in the nebulous time post-Donna, when the Doctor is still floating around space by himself (though admittedly his mental health in this seems much better than the trainwreck he really was in canon). And Martha hasn’t left UNIT to go freelance yet.
> 
> [Title](https://youtu.be/y3sH7S1SlyA?t=41s).

Martha left work two hours later than she had planned. She was excited to get home, change into lounge pants, and fall asleep on the couch cuddling Mickey. But those plans were halted by the familiar blue monolith parked several metres from the staff entrance.

She glanced at the sky. No misplaced planets. No spaceships hovering overhead. She itched to pull out her phone and check international news, but decided that would only waste time. It was better to go straight to the source.

She marched over and thumped on the door. At the feel of her knuckles against wood, it clicked open.

“Right,” she said, pushing into the TARDIS, “what is it? Do I need to get Jack on the phone? I know you don’t always like getting Torchwood involved, but I’m not going off to stop an alien invasion on my own, not anymore.”

There was a crash on the other side of the console and then the Doctor popped up behind the cloister bell, pink-cheeked and beaming.

“Martha! Alien invasion? No. Unless you count me. But then, I’ve been floating around Earth for a couple millennia. Bit of a pest, me. But not quite an invasion force.” The Doctor raised a bottle of expensive-looking champagne above his head. It was only half full. “Would you like some champagne? It’s from your wedding.”

He rounded the console, and Martha saw him fully. Gone was the pinstriped suit and converse. In its place was a pair of velvet blue boots that ended just below his knee, laced with ribbon. He wore breeches and a tunic with silver embroidery, something clearly not from the twenty-first century. A long, delicate cape made of needle lace, deep blue and white in overlapping patterns, swept behind him, like a plant swathed by a blanket of dewey moss.

Martha blinked. “Sorry, did you just say the champagne’s from my wedding?”

“Fresh from," the Doctor agreed. "And so am I."

The Doctor toppled down the stairs, somehow not tripping over the lacey hem. Martha deftly plucked the champagne bottle out of his hands. He had clearly had enough.

“Doctor,” she said patiently. “What are you doing here?”

“RSVP-ing, of course! You told me to do that, so here I am, telling you that I have, in fact, attended your wedding.”

She took in his attire again. “You came from my wedding?” She hadn’t handed out invitations yet. They hadn’t even settled on a date.

She had been thinking about the Doctor, though. Would he attend? If she rang for something that wasn’t an emergency, asked him to come down to Earth for something as ordinary as a wedding, would he come? He remained one of Martha’s best friends, even if she wasn’t travelling with him anymore. She wanted him there.

And now she knew he would come. Had already come.

“Ring me,” he said, like he knew exactly what she was thinking. “I’ll be excited about it. Promise. Oh, but remind me not to wear white! I always forget that about human weddings. White, what an oddly specific colour to get married in.”

He smiled at her, fresh from her wedding, as dorky and wonderful and maniac as she remembered. She felt herself soften. She grabbed him by the cape, and tugged him into her arms. He sunk into the embrace, smile squashed against her neck.

“Martha Jones,” he said. “Oh, Martha Jones.”

She held him closer. Even after a tiring day at work, even as confusing as he was, she was glad to see him.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mum, it’s fine.”

“It shouldn’t be _fine_ , Martha. It’s your wedding day. Everything is supposed to be perfect.”

Martha exchanged longsuffering looks with Tish. Francine bustled around the bottom of the dress with a steam iron, trying to get it to lay flat, but frightened of accidentally burning off the delicate stitching woven into the hem. She had hovered over Martha earlier, when the stylist was arranging her hair into an elaborate bun, cooing and critiquing in turn.

“It is great, Mum,” Tish interjected. “Martha looks great.”

“She looks more than great.” Mum let go of the dress. Martha spun around. There, standing in the doorway, wearing a long, lacey cape, was the Doctor. He smiled at her, small and close-mouthed, a world of emotion behind his eyes. “She looks beautiful.”

Francine stood, arms crossed. “So you did turn up!”

“Sorry for not RSPV-ing,” the Doctor said. “I meant to but I forgot. Forgetful, that’s me.”

“You weren’t sure you were going to come at all,” Martha corrected. The Doctor, lightheaded with champagne, had confessed this when she saw him last year.

It felt strange being the one with the foresight, for once. She wondered if this was how the Doctor felt all the time, several steps ahead of everyone, sure of the future but petrified it would change all the same.

The Doctor lost some of his buoyant enthusiasm. “Yeah. Sorry. Weddings aren’t usually—I just go for the dancing, half the time. But then I thought that you deserved better than that. I deserved better than that.”

Tish grabbed Francine by the elbow and escorted her out of the room, shutting the door behind them. There was an awkward pause for a moment, as they stood on opposite sides of the room staring at one another, before a smile spread on Martha’s face.

The Doctor—her Doctor—had come, just as he had said he would all those months ago. He was here now, and she felt achingly fond of him all over again— _just_ fond, and wasn’t that a deep relief—and Martha was about to get married to the love of her life. It really was a perfect day.

“Martha Jones,” the Doctor said again, soft and wondering, the way he always said her name.

They crossed the room in several steps, meeting in the middle. Martha threw her arms around his neck and the Doctor wrapped his arms around her waist. The force of the hug lifted Martha clear off her feet. The Doctor was cold, and he smelt of ozone and soap, and he was so familiar, even after all the time that had passed between them.

They finally drew apart. The Doctor pulled out an engraved box that looked too big to have fit inside his breast pocket.

“You’re not supposed to give the bride gifts directly,” Martha joked.

The Doctor shook his head. “This isn’t a wedding gift, not in the sense that humans give gifts when they attend a wedding. I already laid my proper present with the rest of them. This is a ceremonial tribute.”

“Ceremonial tribute?” Martha echoed.

The Doctor drew in a deep breath, like he was steadying himself, and said quietly, “On Gallifrey, weddings take place in two parts: the actual ritual that happens in private, with only the couple present, and the public signing. The public event isn’t so much a romantic thing, I guess. My people—well, they loved tradition, but they weren’t usually ones for sentimentality.”

He stopped. Took another deep breath. Grimaced like his lungs were filled with glass shards.

Martha put a hand on his arm. The Doctor reached up and took her hand in his.

He continued, “The public event involved the couple registering their union with the High Council, making it official. Bit like nipping down to the post office to get a new passport. Paperwork and legal waffle and all that.

“But in the lead up to the signing, friends, family, neighbours, colleagues—everyone whose life you had touched came and delivered tributes of respect and love that you would wear during the ceremony.

“You’re human,” the Doctor said. “I know that. You don’t have the same customs. But I was wondering—would you wear my tribute to you?”

The Doctor looked away from her in a fit of shyness. He opened up the elaborate box. Inside was a thousand granules of gold light, like a handful of tiny pearls. They twinkled, almost too bright to look at.

Martha brought a hand to her mouth. “Yes. Yes, of course I will. How do I put it on?”

The Doctor beamed, both relieved and touched all at once, and then crouched down in front of her dress. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver and a small metal object that looked alarmingly like a seam ripper. “Servants usually do this part. You just be patient and think calm thoughts. This is normally a nervous time for people getting married.”

“I’m not nervous,” Martha said as the Doctor got to work laying a thousand gold specks over her dress. “I’ve fought aliens and mad-men. I walked the scope of the Earth. Why would I be nervous about something like this?”

“Oh, going up against mad-men is easy. Getting up in front of everyone and declaring your love for someone? That’s terrifying.”

“I’m not scared of public speaking. It’s more like I’m impatient for it to happen already. I’ve wanted to marry Mickey for so long.”

“Good,” the Doctor said, though the alien seam ripper in his mouth made the words come out jumbled. “Brilliant, even. Better than me. I puked the morning of my public signing. Almost got vomit on my best robes.”

The Doctor was behind her, working on the back of her dress. Martha couldn’t see his face. But the forcibly easy way he said it, the words too casual, told her how hard that tiny confession was.

“Did it work out?” Martha asked.

“Miracle of miracles, I got through the ceremony without puking in front of anyone. I know you won’t puke on anyone, Martha. Though I can’t say Mickey won’t upchuck on you. He doesn’t have the most reliable stomach.”

“His stomach is just fine,” Martha scolded, and the Doctor laughed and changed the subject.

Martha hadn’t been asking if the ceremony passed vomit-free. She had wondered about the Doctor’s mysterious partner. His wife or husband. What happened to their relationship, in the end? What had they thought about the Doctor stealing a TARDIS and leaving Gallifrey?

Did the Doctor miss them?

She kept her questions behind her teeth. Probing would only make the Doctor shy further away.

When the Doctor was finished fixing the lights to her dress, he moved to her hair and veil, sprinkling more of those beautiful gold balls, and then he was done. He moved back, studying her.

“How does it look?” she asked.

“You’re the most beautiful bride in the universe.” It was ridiculous and too much, but compliments coming from the Doctor often were. And when he fixed his gaze on you and spoke in that low indulgent voice of his, he made you feel like you really were the centre of the universe.

She hadn’t realised that the sensation wasn’t just a byproduct of her crush until after she had joined UNIT and read accounts from other companions. The Doctor had the ability to make anyone feel like they were on top of the world, special and invulnerable and perfectly loved, because he believed it, and so it must be true.

The door cracked open. “Martha, what on earth is taking so long—?”

Francine and Tish pushed their way into the room, and then stopped abruptly.

“Martha,” Francine said.

“Does it look bad?” Martha said.

“Oh, Martha,” Francine said wetly. “You look wonderful. Just wonderful.”

Martha turned to exchange another exasperated glance with Tish, but Tish’s mouth was hanging open.

“You look amazing, Martha. It looks like someone’s gone and dumped real stars all over you.”

“Did you do this?” Francine asked the Doctor.

“I just stitched some gold bits onto the dress,” said the Doctor, waving a hand in the air. “Martha’s the one that made it look so brilliant.”

Francine and Tish kept gushing over her, which was better than the nervous fussing, Martha thought. The Doctor winked at her, and slipped out the door.

 

* * *

 

 

 

There had been a constant stream of people coming in and out of Mickey’s room. He didn’t have any living family, but he had plenty of people who came to see him nonetheless. Clive and Leo, his future father- and brother-in-law. Jack. Old friends Martha and he knew from UNIT or Torchwood.

It didn’t replace the people that weren’t there. Rose, and Jackie, and the people he had met in the other universe, and his long-gone grandmother. But it helped soothe that old ache.

He was chatting with Clive when the door cracked open.

“You had better not try and give me anymore tips about the wedding night,” Mickey called, turning.

But instead of Jack, there was the Doctor. He was in a pair of breeches with velvet, knee-length boots, shrouded in a delicate lace cape. Mickey couldn’t remember a time when he had seen this Doctor wearing anything other than his suits or pyjamas.

The Doctor’s smile was strained. “Tips about the wedding night? Absolutely not. Especially not with Martha’s father in the room.”

“Smart man,” Clive said. There was a long, awkward silence, in which Mickey just stared at the Doctor, and the Doctor looked even more pained. Clive cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you two to catch up, then.”

Before Mickey could ask Clive to stay, he disappeared out the door.

“Doctor,” Mickey said. “I didn’t expect you to show up. Martha said you would, but I thought ...”

“I’d let her down anyway?” finished the Doctor.

Mickey winced. “Sorry. It’s just been a while since either of us have seen you.”

“I know. I know.” The Doctor scrubbed a hand through his hair, making it stick up even further. The clothes were unfamiliar, but the twitchy mannerisms, the skinny body and freckled face, the accent that didn’t make sense on a man not from Earth—that was all the same. He hadn’t gone and regenerated on them again. “It has been a while. But you’re getting married! That’s big. And I realised—I realised that I wanted to see that. See you both get married.”

“You missed Martha, huh?” Mickey joked. “Don’t think about getting her back again.”

“We both know she wouldn’t come with me, even if I asked.”

There was another pause, but this was one wasn’t awkward. In this one, they appreciated Martha Jones, a woman they both loved, but in entirely different capacities.

“It was good to see her again,” the Doctor said. “And it’s good to see you. Oh, Mickey Smith.” The Doctor came forward, finally. There was a strange depth to his eyes. His smile was small, barely there, but his eyes … “Or should I say Mickey Jones?”

“Oh, very funny. Martha’s the one taking my name, you know.”

The Doctor stared at him blankly. He blinked, and said, “Oh, right. Because she’s a woman. I always forget that about Earth. What a strange custom.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “What’s it like on your planet, then?”

The Doctor shifted uneasily, the way he always did when his home-planet was brought up, but he didn’t say something awful and snappish, or whirl around dramatically and change the subject and babble on about some far-flung planet where it was Christmas every day. That was an improvement.

“Whoever’s House was the most important, decorated, or socially elevated would be the House the couple belonged to. And Martha’s family have done quite well for themselves, wouldn't you say, Mr Jones?”

Mickey laughed. “Are you saying I’m marrying up?”

“Well, I never said that.” The Doctor hesitated for a moment, and then he pulled out a small decorated box. He fiddled with the clasp rather than look at Mickey. “That’s not the only custom my people had around weddings. There’s another, actually. Friends, family, and community members gave tributes. To show their love.”

“Like a gift? Martha would appreciate that, I’m sure.”

“I already gave Martha her tribute. This one is for you.”

Mickey stared at the flat box held in the Doctor’s pale fingers. “You want to give me a … a Gallifreyan tribute of love?”

“If you’ll let me.” The Doctor sounded nervous. What on Earth did he have to be nervous about?

“Why?”

“It’s to symbolise that the people getting married are respected and valued by the community. Two people taking all the love they’ve received from others into their new relationship. Like a blessing, or a sign of their worth and social status, I suppose. My people always did like a bit of boasting about social status.”

Mickey blinked at him. “And you want to pin a symbol of your—your respect on me?”

The Doctor lowered the box. He stepped back, the cape falling further over him, hiding him from view, the way his long coat used to. “It’s not a human custom, I understand. You don’t have to—"

“No, it’s not that. I just don’t get why you’d give it to me. I was never … I mean you had Rose. I was just a tag-along. The tin dog.”

“Oh, Mickey,” the Doctor said, and there was that look in his eyes again, bottomless and too much. It was like peering over the cliff edge and seeing a gaping blackness below, and knowing you couldn’t begin to fathom the distance to the ground. “My Mickey Jones. I’m so sorry for making you feel like that. I never meant—I was hurting. And I took that out on a lot of people, including you. I guess I saw you as a sign that my time with Rose had a deadline, and it was hard for me to cope with that.”

Mickey was lost for words. Martha had told him about the way the Doctor could make you feel so weightless and impossibly grounded all at once. Mickey had gotten glimpses of that before. Dashes of affection or praise, standing only on the periphery of the Doctor’s awareness, but to feel the full effects, like he had always wanted to—

“You’ve come so far,” the Doctor went on. “You went to another world and chose to stay and make something of yourself. And then you came back, to save Rose and the universe, and now look at you. Defender of the universe. My idiot tin dog, the bravest man there is.”

It was like being winded. Mickey knew there was nothing wrong with his lungs, but when he tried to draw in air, he couldn’t. The breath had been stolen from him.

When his body started working again, Mickey managed, “I’m not the bravest man there is. I’ve met a lot of brave people. Braver people than me.”

“Does your bravery eclipse theirs?”

“No, of course not.”

“So why should their bravery eclipse yours?”

And again, Mickey didn’t have the words.

The Doctor opened the box. Inside was hundreds of fine gold balls, some small enough to look like gilded dust motes.

“You want to match Martha, don’t you?” the Doctor said. “Come on. Let me put this on you.”

Mickey nodded, mute, and stayed still while the Doctor fixed the fine gems to his suit, mainly concentrating them on his shoulders, lapels, and cuffs.

When the Doctor was finished, he pulled away, beaming. “There you go. Lovely.”

Mickey looked down at himself. “Doctor, what is this exactly?”

“Nevermind that,” the Doctor said, bouncing away, his grin widening the longer he looked at Mickey. “You have a wedding to get to.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jack met him at the altar. He looked Mickey up and down—not the way he had several hours earlier, with a smirk and a teasing wink, but with open disbelief.

“Your suit,” Jack said.

Mickey looked down at himself. The hundreds of small spots shone when he moved, like tiny jewels catching the light. “It doesn’t look daft, does it?”

Jack laughed, incredulous. “You have no idea what you’re wearing, do you?”

“No. What is it?”

Jack shook his head. “Later. But tell me: where did you get it? Because there’s no way you found anything like that on Earth, or even on any of the aliens that end up here.”

Mickey caught sight of the Doctor sneaking into the church. He found a seat at the back, and immediately struck up a conversation with the people around him.

Jack followed his gaze. His eyes went wide.

Mickey caught his wrist. “You’re not about to climb over the pews to get to him, are you?”

“I knew you invited him, but I didn’t think ...” Jack shook himself. He wrenched his gaze away from the Doctor. It must have taken a lot of effort for him to do that, Mickey thought, grateful all over again that Jack was standing up there with him.

He was a good friend to have. A good man. Mickey hoped the Doctor would stop and have a word with Jack, the way he had spoken to him earlier. Jack deserved that.

The soft music started up, and Mickey forgot all about the Doctor.

When Martha came into the church, Mickey felt his core shake. She was gorgeous. She had always been gorgeous, but right then, standing in the arched doorway of the church in a flowing white gown, her hair pulled back—she was the most beautiful thing he had ever soon. Haloed by the sun, she practically shone.

And then Mickey realised it wasn’t the sun. She really was shining. Her dress and hair was covered in a thousand glinting specks, like the sky had been brought down from the heavens to be sprawled across her body.

They matched, Micky thought. The shimmery lights on his suit, the tiny suns patterned on Martha’s dress, the two of them having left a world in the stars to meet one another—they matched.

 

* * *

 

 

Jack caught the bouquet. Because of course he did. Tish looked ready to fight him for it, but settled down when Jack gave her a kiss on the cheek in exchange.

Between the wedding photos and the well-wishers, between Martha, who he could barely take his eyes off of, Mickey lost track of where all the guests were. He thought Jack and the Doctor disappeared for a while. He could only hope that that conversation went well.

It wasn’t until later, after the wedding photographer had let them go, after they entered their reception to cheers and cat-calls, after they cut the cake and Mickey almost got icing down his front, Jack found him again.

Jack fell into the seat to their right. It originally belonged to Leo, but he was on the rapidly swelling dancefloor.

“It was a lovely ceremony. You both looked stunning.” Mickey had heard that they both looked wonderful a dozen times over from other guests, but Jack shook his head, and insisted, “Really. Breathtaking. Those lights you’re wearing—they’re not just sparkles. They’re sun spots.”

“Sun spots?” Martha asked.

“The technology won’t be available for thousands of years. It wasn’t even around in the fifty-first century.” Jack leaned in, and Mickey and Martha couldn’t help but inch forward too. “They’re suns. Literally. Thousands of suns without orbiting bodies shrunken down and made fabric-safe, so they could adorn the bodies of royalty and the mega-rich.”

“Suns?” Martha leant back, wide-eyed. “But that’s awful. Someone took stars out of the sky just to, what? Make a fashion statement?”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you.” They looked up. The Doctor was stood at the end of the table, hands folded behind his back. His cape was gone, relinquished to Martha’s niece. “I don’t agree with it either. But I didn’t have these sets commissioned.”

Jack laughed. “You stole them?”

“I didn’t steal them. Well. Not really. _Well_.” The Doctor flapped a hand in the air. “I saved the Emperor’s favourite husband in the ninety-eighth century. He asked what I wanted in return. I asked for the sun spots they were wearing, and an end to the practise of sun-stealing.”

“To give to us?” Martha said. “You said it was something only really worn by royalty, so why … ?”

“Robing your past companions in stars.” Jack smiled as though he were joking, but the tone of his voice, the lingering way he glanced from the newlyweds to the Doctor, belied his grin. “That’s rather sentimental of you, Doc.”

The Doctor sniffed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” Jack said.

“Thank you,” Mickey said, leaning into Martha’s side. “Really, Doctor. Thank you.”

“You have nothing to thank me for.” The Doctor dropped out of his straight posture and whirled around, breaking the moment. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I promised Martha’s grandfather a dance.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me at tumblr at  [captainkirkk](https://captainkirkk.tumblr.com/)


End file.
